Redemption
by Squinterian
Summary: After the fall of Mallet island, a rather unexpected homecoming.
1. Prologue

This was born from a train of thought that happened because I've been spending entirely too much time mulling on DMC. It's been done before, it's been done better (go read Laryna6's 'Angel Trilogy' if you don't believe me - that's a piece of frickin' art right there), and I might just decide that therefore I'm too unmotivated to continue this. Then again, I might not. Time alone will tell. Anyhow, just a bit of a teaser for now - if you stumble across this, please tell me what you think. Reviews are devoured upon spot.

o-o-o-o-o

_Prologue_

o-o-o-o-o

"The sky," Trish gasped. Her hair whipped back from her face as she leaned out from the plane's small cockpit to stare upward. "It's so _blue_."

"And it's gonna keep on being blue tomorrow, and every day after that," Dante said, smiling at the sound of child-like wonder in her voice.

"I never imagined it could be so... bright."

Dante threw his head back and closed his eyes. He pulled the ragtag plane into a steep incline, the wind whipping in his ears, and enjoyed the sudden squeal that erupted from behind him. The voices carried all the way down to the surface of the ocean – laughter from Dante and high-pitched noises from Trish – and echoed there even as the sight of their little transport grew smaller and smaller, until finally the plane was so high that, the remnants of Mallet Island seemed like a pile of pebbles in a puddle and its reflection on the surface of the ocean was barely larger than a small shape that bobbed in and out of the waves, far below and behind.

o-o-o-o-o

The water was cold. It drenched him all the way to the skin and for a moment he was confused, because it had been such a long time since anything had touched his skin. Something was normally in the way. It dimly occurred to him that that something was also quite heavy, so it was a good thing it wasn't currently there, because he was currently in water and heavy things sank—

A wave crashed over him, pulling him underwater. Desperation gave strength to limbs that were only just remembering how to swim. After what seemed like a small eternity, his head broke the surface and he drew in a shaky breath.

He clawed the water, trying to keep himself afloat. It was proving surprisingly difficult, and he wondered vaguely how long it had been since he had done something like this – fought for his survival against something tangible, something that didn't derive a twisted pleasure from challenging him and then beating him; something that just _was_.

Far above in the sky, the plane was heading for the mainland. Last shreds of laughter could still be heard.

_Familiar._

That was a coherent thought, the first one since everything had started to fall apart in his head. It felt different from what he was used to - important, somehow, and more... tangible. Raw. _Real._ The meaning scattered when he tried to reach for it, but the feeling remained.

_Familiar. Know that sound. _

One difficult, painful arc of an arm. Then another. He inhaled water and sputtered, but kept going. The land was a long way off, but he didn't think of it. He would probably have been unable to, even if he'd tried.

The sound was fading. Alarmed, frightened urgency greeted this notion.

_Mustn't lose it, mustn't..._

A few lazy clouds drifted across the sky; the plane was no longer in sight.

o-o-o-o-o


	2. Chapter 1

AN: This might actually be going somewhere.

o-o-o-o-o

_Chapter 1 _

o-o-o-o-o

They landed the aeroplane on a patch of field. Actually, saying "landed" would be giving it too much credit; while Dante might have been able to figure out how to steer the aircraft, landing it had not exactly been part of the agreement, so it had become less of a landing and more of a crash. The plane was currently jutting out of the ground at an angle of some twenty degrees. One of its wings was pointing diagonally towards the sky, while the other had been imbedded in the ground and had broken partially off upon impact.

The pilot himself was sitting on the broken wing, by all appearances busy with his weapons arsenal. In reality, though, he was giving his companion room to adjust to her new-found freedom.

Trish was crouching a short distance away, inspecting some flowering shrub. Before that, she had stood silently a good while with her back turned towards him, simply looking away into the distance. He was reminded of how Mallet Island hadn't exactly sported a lot of wide open spaces – or living things, for that matter. All he remembered seeing was brown grass and some half-dead, knotted trees.

Trish looked up and smiled. Her expression was open and happy, and more than ever before, he was struck by recollection. The feeling that came with it, though it ached, wasn't painful.

He smiled back at her.

Trish straightened and dusted off her knees. "Well then," she said. "Shouldn't we be heading out, or are you still going to pretend that you're cleaning your guns?"

Dante, who had been inspecting a minuscule dent in Ivory, picked Ebony up as well, spun both around a couple of times and then pushed them into their holsters. "That obvious?" he asked.

"Not too badly." She smirked at Dante's sheepish expression. Then she frowned. "Oh, before I forget..." She fished something from the folds of her clothing and held it out to him. "This is yours."

On the palm of her hand glistened two red amulets. The amulets given by his mother. In Trish, he felt like he'd somehow got a piece of her back. But...

In a brisk swipe, Dante took them. "Thank you."

They headed out, cutting a straight line across the field. Somewhere in the distance they could hear cars driving past, and agreed that they would try to hitch a ride back to civilisation. Trish, full of energy, walked on ahead, while Dante lagged behind. He opened his hand to take another look. From the surfaces of the red orbs, two white-haired faces stared back at him.

_If only..._

He closed his fingers with a snap, pocketed the amulets, adjusted Alastor on his back, and called to Trish to wait up. She laughed, and he made a show of being indignant as he reached her. Side by side, they made their way towards the road.

o-o-o-o-o

The sky was dark. Rain had started to fall perhaps an hour ago, although it was difficult to say for sure. Time seemed to flow either too fast or too slow.

His hands met with solid stone. He grasped for it, but it was covered in algae and slipped away. Then the next wave came and carried him further, and his feet touched the bottom. He scrabbled forward until the ocean started to fall away and he was crawling on his hands and knees. He didn't stop until his hands met rock above the water line. Propping himself up with shaky arms, he coughed, convulsed, and vomited seawater. He retched until nothing more came up, and then he just breathed laboured, ragged breaths. His vision was spinning, and the stone rushed up and hit him in the face. The waves licked his calves, but he could hardly feel them.

He didn't know how long he had been swimming. He had just kept going and going, like he was used to doing, continuing doggedly on until he no longer had strength and would crumble where he stood.

Fingers found a crack in the stone, wound tightly into it and pulled him forward. The rough surface scraped his face. The water fell behind, first to his ankles, then to his feet, and then it was gone completely. There was stone, there was sand, and then the sand gave way to something grey and hard that rose up towards the sky and cast deep shadows even though the sun was nowhere in sight.

_Dark—hidden—safe—hide—_

He dragged himself all the way into the deepest recesses under the platform. There he curled up and tugged his limbs close. The concrete wasn't pleasant but he had little memory of pleasantness, so he didn't find it bothersome. It was dark. It was safe. That was enough.

_Will not be found here. Will be safe._

Soon, he did not think of anything at all.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

o-o-o-o-o


	3. Chapter 2

o-o-o-o-o

What greeted them back at Dante's office was a scene of complete disaster.

The door that had been smashed in was still hanging precariously off its hinges. Dante's desk was a heap of splinters by the back wall, and the back of his chair was sticking out from under it. There was a notable amount of dried blood on several surfaces, bullet holes riddled the ceiling, and several of the skulls on the walls had come off and clattered to the floor. And, of course, there was the shot-to-hell motorbike. But that wasn't all of it.

Apparently, after Dante and Trish's hasty departure, some of the punk kids of the surrounding neighbourhood had thought the broken door to be the equivalent of an open invitation. They had left behind a few souvenirs of their own, including cigarette butts and mostly-empty beer bottles that littered the entire floor. Sloppy graffitis in green, silver and bright pink graced the walls, and someone had thought it funny to play colour-me-beautiful with one of the big, horned skulls. To cap it all, the kids had used the remaining furniture to build a campfire in the middle of the room. The scene was complete with a large smoke stain on the ceiling, and a smell of something burnt lingered in the air.

Despite the destruction of his property, Dante seemed oddly cheerful. He'd set his weapons against the wall, rolled up his sleeves and started to shift through the rubble. The picture frame with its broken glass had been gently picked up and pocketed, and then he had gone about collecting the other items that had escaped the massacre.

Trish couldn't quite share his enthusiasm. The place was a total mess, and had she been the one to call the shots, she would have turned on the spot, walked out and found pleasant quarters to be in. But this was Dante's _home_. She realised that despite the unfamiliarity, she understood the concept. It came in a flash and left a painful, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. She'd never had a home.

And she was largely responsible for _his _home being in the shape it was. That brought an unpleasant twinge of guilt to join the hollow feeling. Neither was something she was particularly happy to be experiencing, and the combination...

It sucked.

_Right. For future reference, avoid smashing up people's homes. In fact, just... avoid smashing things up in general. _

She eyed the bottles with distaste. She figured that it would be only proper to help him clean up, but she sure as hell didn't want to touch _those_.

But she should help, because, hey, wasn't she the reason that the place was in such condition in the first place?

Did _he _think of it that way?

"Hey... Dante?" she called to him.

"Hm?" he said distractedly. He was considering the large, sprayed-on skull with something suspiciously akin to appraisal.

"About this mess..." She wasn't sure what she was going to say. That she was sorry? In the light of, well, everything, that seemed rather lame. "I..."

"It's just stuff," he replied, and there was a note of finality in his voice. "Stuff that can be replaced."

_Unlike some things._

She could hear the afterthought as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud. She saw his free hand sneak into his pocket and remembered the amulets she'd given back to him. Two? Yes... although she'd only ever seen him carry one.

"Dante?"

"Yeah?"

"Where did you get the other amulet?"

Dante put the skull down. His back was towards her, but she could see his shoulders tense. When he answered her, his voice was quiet, strained.

"From my brother."

Right, Nelo Angelo. The other son of Sparda. Mundus's plaything. Even during those rare and fleeting moments when her Master – _former_ _master_, she corrected herself – had allowed him any kind of respite, he had roamed the castle like an unsettled ghost. Never pausing, never resting. Always searching for something that could never be found.

Trish thought she now had an idea of what he had been looking for. And discovered that that was worse than the guilt and the hollow feeling combined.

"Well, what's past is past," Dante said rather harshly, interrupting her thoughts. "And 'this mess', like you put it," he continued in a lighter tone, "isn't going to clean up itself. So we'd better get cracking if we're going to make this place fit to live in. And there's still the bedrooms upstairs to do – who knows what they've done to _them_."

The implication of the plural form didn't escape Trish. "You mean that you'd have me stay, then?" she asked.

Dante chuckled. "Hey, do I look like the kind of a guy who'd kick a lady into the street?"

No, he didn't. He looked like some sort of a knight... a knight red spandex, meticulously picking up the pieces of his life and putting them back together. And taking her in with open arms, even though she had been the one to break everything apart.

Trish looked at the floor. It seemed blurry. Then she blinked a couple of times, rather viciously, bent down and reached for the beer bottles.

They worked in companionable silence. Dante disappeared for a while through a door at the back and returned with a handful of large black plastic bags, into which they stuffed the bottles, the remains of burnt furniture, and, surprisingly, the demon skulls. When Trish gave Dante a querying look, however, he only shrugged. "Doesn't seem so important anymore," he said.

After a couple of hours, the room had turned from 'disaster' to 'damaged'. They stood in the middle of it – Dante with arms crossed, Trish with her hands on her hips – eyeing their handiwork appreciatively. The blood was still there, of course, as were the graffiti and the scorch marks. The walls and the ceiling would have to be repainted and the floor done, but that could wait for another day. All in all, though, it looked much better.

Cleaning had been surprisingly hard work, so when Dante suggested that they left the upstairs for tomorrow and hit a hostel a few blocks down, Trish gratefully agreed. While she examined the door, he produced a pizza box, tore it up and found a marker to scribble something on it with. Then he hung it on the door, and she suppressed a snort when she read what it said.

_Reopened for business in a couple of days. In the meantime, trespassers will be hunted down and slayed. Thank you and come again, _

_The Proprietor_

The closed the door as best as they could. Dante pointed out the direction and she started walking, not immediately realising that she was the only one doing so. She did, however, when she was startled by a heartfelt, savage curse.

"Son of a _bitch!_"

She turned around.

Dante was standing up from a crouch, holding up something that he had apparently picked from the ground. That something, on the second look, appeared to be a vandalised girly poster. The same poster, she recalled, on which his sword – the Force Edge – had been hanging. It was torn nearly in two from the middle, and on the lower half of it, someone had doodled a split oval shape with rays around it. The upper half sported a gigantic moustache. The look on his face was halfway between outrage and pure agony.

"I've had this since I was _sixteen_," he said in a voice that sounded like someone had punched him in the gut.

Trish couldn't help it. She doubled over and laughed. At the sight of Dante's affronted face she laughed even harder, until the tears she'd been biting back earlier welled up in her eyes and spilled over.

o-o-o-o-o

AN: I'm actually getting into this story. Expect more in the near future.


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